Storm Untamed
by Ramzes
Summary: "I do wish I was just allowed to rest," Orys would sigh but of course, souls as restless as theirs could not find the rest in this un-life when they had never had it in life. Argella's look on the clashes of House Baratheon with the dragons throughout the history of Westeros.
1. Rhaenys

_Storm Untamed_

As a little girl, Argella believed in the mercy of the Seven – until her father got slewed defending what had been theirs for thousands of years. Then, she believed in the cruelty of the Seven – until she got gagged and dragged out, the first time a man inflicted her pain in her life, to be thrown before the murderer like a cherished prize. And then, she believed that there were no Seven at all and that was a good thing because else she didn't know how she would have survived knowing that her gods had done this to her, inspired both the longing to clung to Orys and never let go and sometimes, the urge to claw the skin off that handsome face that kept her in its thrall.

There was never hatred burning as fierce as the hatred of a woman forced to come to love a man against her will – and forced Argella was, for all that her mouth was not gagged during the ceremony and she said the words. Yes, it was a good thing that she no longer believed in the Seven.

And yet, she had to believe in them or at least in something when it turned out that death was not the end of it. The storms shaking her life as savagely as they did her lands would not stop just because she had died. Instead, she was forced to watch as the stormlands sank even more deeply into the power of the pretender kings, as her ancestors became past to be revered but detached and without her there to maintain the tie and keep it alive, quite unwanted. She was deprived even of the pleasure of trying to undermine the dragons in secret – and trying to take what Aegon Targaryen cherished almost as much as he did the Durrandons' lands even more away from him.

"I do wish I was just allowed to rest," Orys would sigh but of course, souls as restless as theirs could not find the rest in this un-life when they had never had it in life.

At least they weren't there. If the Seven did exist, that was a proof of their mercy. Wherever Aegon and his sisters were drifting now – or being drifted, as was the case of Orys and Argella – their ways never crossed and for this, she was grateful. She had seen the three siblings forty seven times in her life. That was forty seven more than she would have liked.

They weren't there even when Argella and Orys found themselves drifting in the throne room, over that odious throne of iron. None of them knew why they had been brought here but they listened, open-mouthed, as a girl was cheated out of her rights before everyone because she was a woman – and because her blood was not as pure as her uncle's. Argella's hiss as that copy of Aegon knelt to thank the king was loud enough to be heard all the way to the doors but no one seemed to register it.

"Not good enough," she spat, looking at Orys. "Well, what could have been expected from the Targaryens? They used you to the very end, only bringing you misfortunes. Why should it be different for her?"

"If she were a son and heir, it would not have happened." But he would not look at her which only made her anger rise. The long speech the King sitting the Iron Throne now had given his lords, acknowledging his late son's great service before depriving his granddaughter from her rights felt like an echo of the things Aegon had always said about Orys – after he had lost a hand in his service.

But had she really expected that her lord husband would acknowledge this diminishing of their line? He had always been so desperate not to admit that the rejection he had experienced his entire life _was_ a rejection. He had been Aegon's greatest champion but nothing more. Not where the world could see. For the world, he didn't even share Aegon's blood. His fierce loyalty had not brought him this. Slowly, she reached for his hand, grumbling. It was cold in this throne room and cold always brought sharp pains in the once damaged limb, especially where his hand used to be. In death, he was whole again but the habit going on for so many years was too strong to be broken. Besides, they both liked it. She wrapped her palms about his hand, warming it, and he gave her a grateful look. Her annoyance with him faded. Truly, what had she expected? He had always been quick to cut her off even in those dark days after his return from Dorne when sometimes she had been unable to keep her malice towards Aegon in check. She still considered Orys' maiming a wrong the Targaryen king had committed against her – but Orys had been quick to come out of his dark silence to defend Aegon when he couldn't be bothered to lift her head as Argella raged and mocked, and did everything she could to make him look up, see anything but his despair.

They had it so easy, didn't they? Jaehaerys. Aegon. They could say the pretty words and not be bothered to fill them with meaning. Deep inside, Argella knew that she was being unfair. Jaehaerys did look deeply saddened by his son's death. Aegon could have hardly given Orys more than he already had, for acknowledged bastards had always meant trouble for the next generation if not this one. But she didn't care about being fair. The girl before her, the girl of her blood, wasn't naked, gagged, and delivered to her enemy in humiliation but she was no less deprived of her rights than Argella had been. Orys had always wanted to belong and with time, against her will, his longings had started mattering to her.

Aegon had deprived both of them of so much and yet whenever she said so, Orys always rushed to his defence. That shamed Argella, that he'd be more loyal to the king who had given him nothing – nothing that Orys hand't earned himself, that was it – than the land that had accepted him and the wife who could no longer hate him as he deserved. It had also pained her to see him still striving to prove his worth to those who measured acknowledgment according to it. Was Orys the only bastard Aerion Targaryen had bequeathed to Dragonstone? No, he wasn't. He was just the most useful one… but he would get angry whenever Argella pointed it out. "They aren't like this," he'd say. "He brought that Essosi healer to Storm's End, flying him on Balerion, just to make sure that I'd get better when it was clear that I could never lead his armies again."

Ah! The Essosi healer! Another glorious gesture on Aegon's part – Argella had to admit that it had been one of the best. Not that she doubted the sincerity of the concern writ on Aegon's face as he watched Orys burn into another fever depriving him of his understanding when before, Orys had hardly ever been ill. "I am not parsimonious," he had told the short man, his words hesitant, awkward. "You'll be well rewarded if he stops getting ill." Argella had thanked him for coming so unexpectedly, and he had smiled – not quite friendly. "Orys is mine," he had said and something in his demeanor made her wonder if he suspected her of having something to do with his friend, her husband's new state of health.

 _You're wrong,_ Argella still wanted to say. _Orys is mine._ Yes, he had been hers – when he had swayed between dark despair and aggression to her and everyone else he met during the day and clinging to her like a child at night; when he had been slowly, painfully mastering the sword with his remaining hand and fared worse than their son and she had wanted to scream because it just wasn't right, wasn't _right_ ; when the sight of the men who had lost their hands under his lead brought him even lower. But for this, Aegon hadn't been present, so he could look at her, wonder if she was harming Orys in some way, and silently blame her for not being an eager and obedient wife, as if she could – she should – forget how this marriage had come to be.

The hand in hers was warm and steady. Argella released it and linked her fingers through his. Together, they watched the girl curtsy to the King and the man who had displaced her and leave, face composed, head held high. In her purple eyes, the betrayal was sharp, although she'd keep it locked within her breast. Argella reached out to pat her hand but of course, she couldn't feel the caress. Argella looked at Orys, wondering how he could look at the girl who could never be queen and justify this betrayal – to the girl and her father, to them and what Orys had done to steady the Targaryen throne.

But he was looking straight ahead and when she called his name, he pretended not to hear.


	2. Borros

**Thank you, pinke289 and thunder18, for reviewing.**

Storm Untamed

Chapter 2

Even before it became clear that she would be her father's heir, Argella had been brought up to be a lady of substance. Had King Argilac prepared her to take over from her lord husband, whoever that might be, Argella wondered many years later. He had been nicknamed Argilac the Arrogant, after all, and he might have well expected from his daughter to be the king in her new home. He had certainly educated as such, exuled in her stormy, imperious temper – and then, she had become the future queen of the Stormlands.

Perhaps it was only right for the four girls to learn obedience at their father's hands , rather than their husbands – and Argella could say that at least for two of them, it did not came more naturally than it had to her. But it angered her nonetheless, this disrespect of their worth, this modeling of them to be obedient lady wives, attuned to every arch of their lords' eyebrows. She found herself gravitating towards their solar more and more, avoiding Borros as much as she could.

"The very thought of him gracing House Baratheon's family tree is enough to curb my self-esteem," she said darkly.

Orys, the wretched scoundrel that he was, merely laughed. "What's so funny?" she snapped. "You've never treated our girls this way and you've never raised a hand against me, even as I was praying that you would. I can't believe you approve of Storm's End being turned into a practice yard for meek wives."

He rolled his eyes. "When I remember how I thought I was taking care of you… You could have fared just fine without me, my lady. You could have become a great poet or… mummer…"

She glared at him but while in the beginning of their shared, well, life, it might have affected him, now it only made him grin wider. "So it's care about House Baratheon's family tree now?" he asked. "I seem to remember a lady who told me that no matter what I did, there would be no such house, just pretensions. "

Argella blushed and then joined in his laughter. "I guess I did turn into a meek wife after all," she conceded. "Somewhat. But I still don't like him," she added.

Orys looked thoughful. "Nor do I," he said. "But perhaps there are less than stellar people in every House. I do hope that Lord Boremund will do something to curb those inclinations of his. He does love his granddaughters and he likes Rhaenys' high spirit."

But while Lord Boremund doted on the girls, he never tried to change anything about their circumstances. Did he seem to think that his niece whom he was so close to had just turned out to be the way she was? It never seemed to occur to him that spirit and backbone needed to be nurtured and not squashed to achieve this result. He resembled Argella's father so much, yet in this so important respect, he was nothing like him at all.

But then again, it wasn't as if he and Borros were preparing queens for the throne. The kingdom of the House of Storms was fading into a distant memory, getting more indistinct with each day that passed. As they watched the girls slowly turning into model wives-to-be and none of the spirit Argella had been praised for, Orys would take her hand and give it a squeeze and she would uniformly look at him with the fondness and affection that she had fought so hard against, the feelings that had come much more slowly than her lust for him, the things that had stayed with her in this unlife as her body turned into an empty shell devoid of any desires. It was odd that only now was she getting the answer of the question that had plagued her throughout their shared life: yes, he had admired her strength, her imperiousness, her queenness in the face of no queenship at all. It had not only been a show, another means to win the affection he had longed for.

And yet, when the pull came, it did not bring them to the girls they both felt so protective of. It brought them to that boar Borros – so appropriately named! – in his great hall as a one-eyed Targaryen stood cockily before him and a boy, resplendidly attired but so very ordinary, advanced forward.

"Look at this sad creature, my lord," the one-eyed called out. Looking at him closely, Argella noticed the huge sapphire in the socket of his missing eye. So Targaryen-like! It was so pretentious and garish. He undoubtedly thought it made him look princely. Dignity was one thing that Houses newly risen to prominence could never adopt, it seemed. Orys shook his head in distaste and Argella smiled, remembering his insistence that he wore a false hand in the aftermath of his return from Dorne. She had put an end to this quite efficiently. How many were the ridiculous things that she had burned or cut in pieces? Two or three? Finally, he had gotten the message but it had been years before her words took roots in him – trying to powder one's scars only made them look more visible. Battle scars should be worn with pride and the Lord of Storm's End should not be whispered about as someone trying to put on appearances. "Little Luke Strong, the bastard."

Orys' breath hissed between his teeth and Argella bristled. Oh, the Targaryens did not change, did they? Not now, not ever. She couldn't remember when exactly she had started feeling anger on his behalf, instead of insult over the reminder that a bastard she had been wed to. Why did words have the power to hurt so? The boy didn't flinch. He must have heard the accusation leveled at his feet often enough, for it was only Lord Borros that he addressed.

Argella's eyes went wide as the suspicions she had been harbouring for so long were finally confirmed. Shame spread down her lifeless body as it had the moment she had been presented to Orys with nothing but her hair to hide her from view. The Lord of Storm's End! An illiterate boor!

"What on earth…?" Orys murmured and she followed his eyes before her own widened. The maester was lying blatantly to his lord's face! Instead of Rhaenyra Targaryen's eloquent plea and reminder of old friendships, he read an incredibly insulting order, one that even Visenya Targaryen would have thought twice before issuing!

"Does he _want_ a war?" Argella asked, incredulous, as blood rose to face of the current lord of Storm's End. He looked so much like her father reading Aegon's suggestion that Argella wed Orys instead of him that she knew: something terrible would follow. The image of two hands flashed in her mind as the four Baratheon girls whispered among themselves, one curious, the other blatantly terrified as they stared at their father with the same dark foreboding that Argella had once stared at hers with.

"And if I do as your mother bids, which one of my daughters will you marry, boy?"

Argella could have slapped him for treating his girls like this. She tried, in fact, without thinking at all but of course, her hand went straight through his face. He didn't even feel a whisper of air.

The girls stirred. Jocelyn that Argella had a particular soft spot for suddenly looked hopeful.

Orys stared at Argella curiously. She hesitated. She wasn't sure what she thought about this. She didn't want any Targaryen on that blasted throne of iron, for sure! She had dislikes for each of the two claimants and they clashed with each other: accepting Rhaenyra Targaryen's claim as the rightful one meant accepting the Targaryen kings' authority to further spit on the lands they had no rights over and break the established order of succession once again; deciding that Aegon was the King, no matter how unlawful the whole kingship or queenship of those two was meant admitting that those who had cheated Rhaenys out of her birthright, who had stripped her naked and thrown her at Orys' feet had had the right of it. Would anyone have dared such a thing with her father? No, they would have starved to death, to the last man and still no one would have dared even think of betraying Argilac Durrandon the way they had all betrayed his daughter.

"My lord, I am not free to marry," the boy said, blushing. "I am betrothed to my cousin Rhaena."

Jocelyn's shoulders sagged miserably. Argella wanted to give her a hug. Something in the girl's eyes told her that for a short, glorious moment she had seen herself free of her father's will – and perhaps something more. The sixteen year old Cassana gave the one-eyed Targaryen a guarded look and Argella's heart went out to her as well.

"Which one is he going to give him?"Argella asked angrily as the dark-haired boy – as unlikely a Targaryen as she had ever seen one – headed back for the door. "They're clearly all scared of him, and this missing eye doesn't flatter his looks!"

She regretted saying it even as she did. But now, Orys had no time for wondering if his missing hand had ruined her desire for him, leaving only pretenses in its stead. "Listen!" he said urgently and Argella's mouth opened in a silent scream as the fateful words, "It is not for me to tell you what to do when you are not beneath my roof."

They had both seen the two dragons in the courtyard. They had both recognized Visenya's mount immediately. They both knew what would follow.

The Lord of Storm's End. The head of the House they had founded with hope, hatred, distrust, and affection slowly building. A murderer in all but name.

"That's what the Targaryens brought to my House!" Argella hissed and she did not know if she meant her old ancient line or the family she had started with Orys. The pull send them behind the two dragonriders, although none of them wished to see what they knew would follow.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! I hope you all had great holidays and I wish you a happy New Year.**


	3. Jocelyn

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it matters more than you know!**

 _Storm Untamed_

Chapter 3

When her father's men had left for Dragonstone, Argella had been repulsed, indignant, resentful. Hateful of her father, even. Politics or not, becoming the third wife of a man who also had two living ones – and his sisters, no less! – was demeaning to her, yet she had understood the necessity of it. Competing with two other women who'd give him an heir was not a prospect that appealed to her but she supposed she could even do this. And she had been forced to admit, secretly, that the thought of a child from her body riding a dragon was not a perspective that repelled her.

Until the dragons had come knocking at their doors, of course. Or knocking their doors down? Not literally, of course, and she had been left with the meager satisfaction of knowing that as fearsome as dragons were, Aegon and his sisters had made use of the time-honoured method of treachery to take what was rightfully hers – something that she never forgot to tell Orys when the sore matter of their wedding came up. To his credit, he never told her that the very next day, Rhaenys' dragon would have subjected Storm's End to the same fate as the other great castles – a mercy that never failed to enrage her further, although her husband, of course, had no idea.

But she had never expected to be rejected. By the Seven, it had stung! The shame! The humiliation had been made worse by the fact that her father had received his men in the great hall, with his entire court in attendance. So great had been his confidence in the future of the match that Argella had had to learn before everyone that the man who frequented two beds, the product of generations of incest and practicing incest himself, had found _her_ unworthy.

"At least they knew better than offer a second best." There was pain and long-buried, never truly forgotten resentment in Orys' voice as they stared at the Lord of Storm's End and his pale daughter.

"I was quite pleased with my second best," Argella said absent-mindedly. "If only my father had accepted…"

His silence made her glance at him, his surprise obvious. Her own shock was no lesser. Never before had she put the blame, any blame, on her father. Even when she had started loving her husband.

"I wish them all the best," Jocelyn finally said, her voice not even shaking, the perfect lady. Her chin was up. The perfect warrior. There were no tears in her eyes, even, although the stunned, hurt shock was something that she couldn't conceal. "They will need it, with him refusing the crown."

"Refusing the crown?" Argella hissed. "Wasn't it more wanting to keep both the crown and his peasant girl?" It was well-known that only when it had been made abundantly clear that he couldn't keep both had the Targaryen prince chosen the girl.

How could Jocelyn stand it? How could she be so gracious knowing that her betrothed had wanted to force a peasant girl as queen one day? That he had refused a crown only to be able to get rid of her? But Argella was surprised by the sudden strength in this girl who in the last few years had turned quite unattractive, plump, awkward and shy because of it. Her own reaction at Aegon's rejection, she was ashamed to remember, had been unbridled fury that had waned away only when she had realized that her father's fury was far greater.

"It's a good thing that he did," Jocelyn said with the same even voice. Argella could see her hands reaching to clutch fistfuls of her gown but she forced them in place. "Else, it would have been a grave insult to House Baratheon."

Argella couldn't help but admire her attempt to reign her father's fury in before it even rose. She hadn't been able to make such an effort and she had not even been Aegon's betrothed but simply one that he refused.

Lord Lyonel's fist collided with the table with such force that Argella jumped high in the air – well, higher in the air. "It is a grave insult to our House and I won't leave it unavenged!"

Argella gasped with both horror and delight. She didn't want a war, she truly didn't and yet she flew into a rage at this new offense. Again! Unworthy once again! She, Rhaenys, and now Jocelyn – would it ever end? And of course, there was the matter of the first Jocelyn, Aemon Targaryen's wife. Alyssa and Baelon – and a good deal of the rest of Jaehaerys and Alysanne's offspring – had always considered her lesser. Too lowborn to be queen compared to their own pure silver Targaryen heritage…

This insult was almost as bad as the injustice done to Rhaenys and much worse than Argella's own rejection. A peasant girl deemed better than a _Baratheon_ lady? Jocelyn would be the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms – she was probably turning into one right now! That was indeed a misdeed that deserved avenging.

Silently, they followed Jocelyn as she finally felt that she couldn't control herself, lest her father. But save for a single, hoarse howl in the privacy of her bedchamber, she didn't give any other sign of the rage that was surely ripping her apart. She was hurt but not disappointed. As if she had known that it had all been too beautiful to come to pass.

"He didn't break my heart," she said impatiently as her wetnurse tried to comfort her. "How could he? He never gave me a second look."

 _More fool he_ , Argella thought. Jocelyn would not believe it now but Argella could see the beauty she'd become one day when she finished growing up. The spots that had despaired her in the last few years would disappear. Her plumpness would fade and then she'd break many hearts with that black hair and fine features of hers, the clear blue eyes that could hold so much compassion.

"I might have lost a throne," the girl said bitterly, "but at least so has he. I'll never have to throw myself from the cliffs when demanded to curtsey before _her_."

The wetnurse screeched with horror and grabbed her hand.

"He _will_ regret it," Orys said furiously. "As he should. How dare he?"

Argella felt a pang of triumph and bitterness. Triumph – because he had never admitted that the slights the Targaryens kept dealing their House were slights and the dragon kings knew it and didn't care. Bitterness – because in those dark days, weeks, and months after his return from Dorne, when he had constantly been a captive of one fever or another, a nightmare on top of a nightmare and it had been a choice between having three men restrain him and laying down next to him and hold him in her arms, soothing him with her voice and caresses, she had come to know that she hadn't been the first woman he had loved. He had never said it aloud, of course, always mindful of the place fate allotted to bastards and painfully aware that this was the fastest way of losing the privileged station he had paid with years of efforts and blood. His father and Aegon would have turned him out of Dragonstone if he had as much as hinted of looking at someone so above him. And so he hadn't - never said a word, never made a gesture,just waiting for Visenya to look at him with the eyes of desire, and she had, all too late… She had looked at him from Aegon's chambers. It had surprised Argella to hear that he had harboured any hopes – he was always so eager to prove himself that she had assumed he knew the realities of what being a bastard truly entailed. Considering him worthy of a daughter of Aerion Targaryen's _love_? Her plaything, he could be, for sure, but love? Over the time, Visenya had started feeling something for him and that was one of the reasons Argella had hated her far more than her whore of a sister – but not when he had wanted and needed it. Not when he had been no one.

Only when she had been too disappointed already. Only when he had proven his worth. Argella had felt no compassion for the woman of no compassion when she had seized Orys' love for herself.

"I know I've always tried to see things from where they stand and not be rash…" Orys started, "but it's…"

"I know," Argella sighed. "It's hard to see them do it again and get away with it – again."

"I wouldn't call what your father did _let them get away with it_ ," Orys said. "I've never seen a more formidable warrior – and he did it for you."

"For our House," Argella corrected. "House Durrandon."

After all those years, it still gave her a thrill to say it. She had avoided it for so very long. Even as the maester taught her children their history, she had always declined their pleas to tell them stories about their ancestors. With the grandchildren, it had been easier.

"I won't be disgruntled for her," she went on, looking down at Jocelyn's straight back and the tears that she refused to let fall, "if she ends up like me after _I_ got rejected."

"Or me," Orys agreed, taking her hand.

* * *

 **A.N. OK, as I was writing this, I came with an idea about a Duncan oneshot – ONEshot, ONE, ONE – that will follow canon and at the same time, go against it. I might be crazy enough to go with it soon. With all those stories I have yet to finish. I never learn. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**


	4. Rhaelle

**Thanks to everyone who left a review!**

Storm Untamed

Chapter 4

Argella had entered Storm's End at Orys' side, with Rhaenys tactfully behind them and Argella hating her for that. She had declined the Targaryen woman's offer for one of the gowns she had brought with her, opting instead for the filthy bloodied cloak she had been delivered to Orys in. The Targaryen men had ridden behind her like some misplaced guard of honour and as she had led the horse into a slower step, she had swept a glance over the faces of the crowd awaiting without showing what she was doing, trying to see who was trying to hide not discomfort but fear. At the time, she had been torturing herself out of her mind to know which ones of the people she had trusted had been a party to the betrayal of her. She had been trying to find enemies upon which she could vent her toothless fury, her back as straight as an arrow because should she have allowed herself the smallest hunch of shoulders, she might have slid off the saddle and weep herself to death, not caring just how quickly Rhaenys Targaryen's mount could trample her over.

The girl riding now through the gates now, a quarter of millennium later, was also careful to keep her back straight and also swept her eyes over the crowd without letting anyone see it but it was friendly faces that she was trying to find among all those who stared at her with resentment.

"That poor child," Argella murmured and immediately reproached herself for this. Rhaelle Targaryen might be a small dragon – she was, in fact, quite small in stature – but she was one nonetheless. And she'd be the Lady of the Stormlands one day. Argella refused to pity her. Why should she? The girls' own parents hadn't, offering her instead as the consolation prize to atone for the behavior of their feckless son.

The men riding behind her clearly felt the sentiments of the crowd. The dislike. They had their hands on their blades, their eyes darting around to detect any threat to their princess. The girl stole a look at Ormund Baratheon at her left but if she hoped that he'd smile and say something to distract her from the stony welcome, she was to be disappointed: he was looking straight ahead, not noticing or not caring about her discomfort. Once again, Argella barred her heart against unwanted pity as she had once barred her gates against the advancing army of the dragon queen and her general.

The face of the Laughing Storm made even her draw back and bump straight into Orys. He looked at her with surprise writ plain on his face. "So you _can_ show fear," he said and she leaned against his strong shoulder, for the first time in hundreds of years feeling content that she had disguised her horror successfully, that night in his tent when they had met – he in his plain garb of a men at-arms and she only hidden partially by her hair. Very partially, she thought, shame turning her cheeks scarlet even now. She had heard much songs about maidens whose virtue was spared from sight by their hair but she had had no such reprieve. Her hair had been just as matted, mudded, bloodied, sweaty and ragged as the rest of her. It had hidden naught. In fact, the many hours that she had spent wrapped in that soiled cloak in the damp corridor where the salty waves lapped at her prone form ever so gently while the traitors waited for everyone to settle down for the night, her crown of glorious hair had become so soaked in mud that she had been forced to cut it. She could still hear her sobs as the now scraggly locks fell, almost as bitter as the ones she had wept for her father. _How many years passed before it grew again,_ Argella wondered, surprised that she did not remember. At the time, she had counted the days, as silly as it had been.

The Laughing Storm was not laughing now. His expression was one that made Argella's heart sing in delight even as she fought the impulse to drag the girl away from him, to safety. For the first time, she saw a Targaryen scared before one of her own, as bravely as Rhaelle fought not to let it show, and as unworthy as it was of her to feel this way towards a child, a small dragon was still a dragon.

"He'd better treat her well," Orys said darkly and Argella wondered who he meant, Lord Lyonel or Ormund.

"I'm sure he will," she said. "He is _your_ descendant, my lord." Orys had never treated her ill, even as she provoked him with her courtesy, as cold and beautiful as a perfect snowflake and as constant as the storms shaking her – now their – castle.

Her husband didn't look comforted, although he did wrap an arm about her and Argella once again felt that demeaning echo of deep fluttering joy that crept upon her each time she saw how pleased he was with any display of her appreciation – no, affection. How she had railed against this blasted weakness of hers, this need to make her father's murderer happy, as if she were his obedient hound!

"He's Borros' descendant as well," Orys said and Argella twisted back to look at him without losing the warmth of his embrace, although it was, of course, only spun and kept alive by memory and imagination. She had never told him how much she enjoyed the oneness they shared in moments like this but at the end, he had needed the words not to know the truth of it.

"By the Seven, child, do go inside before you freeze to death!" Lord Baratheon barked and Argella felt a little, wonderful stir of relief, although she had yet to establish if this display of something like concern would last.

The beginning was not a very promising one. Rhaelle was terribly awkward and her fear of the Laughing Storm made her even more so. Filling his cup often ended with wine ending up all over his tunic and the tablecloth and he'd snap at her, wondering what they had taught her at King's Landing to do at all. Then, his lady wife would give him a look that was gently warning or stern, depending on the severity of his own behavior, and he'd fall silent before awkwardly adding that Rhaelle was getting better. She would look between the two of them and the longing in her eyes would become such that Argella felt forced to look away and Lady Margrat would start talking to distract the child from thinking about her so distant home. Still, it all boiled down to sympathy to Rhaelle's situation. Not the child herself, not yet.

The day Argella saw the girl rushing over to help the maidservant who was carrying firewood for her bedchamber was the day she decided that the situation was spinning out of hand. It was painful to watch the child trying to win affection this desperately but as loudly as she shouted, Lady Margrat could not hear her and Argella had to admit that perhaps she would have been deaf and blind in the woman's stead, too: this was the insult of a mother that pained Margrat. All her heart had to give was directed to her own daughter. She just had none to spare for Rhaelle.

That Jocelyn should be the first friend the little Targaryen girl made in what was to be her family in a few years came as a surprise, and more than a little pride. Jocelyn was really maturing, becoming capable of seeing beyond her own suffering. Talking to Rhaelle, taking her along for strolls in the garden or a ride, showing her the lands she'd become a lady to one day was good for her too, squeezing the last drops of the poison searing her heart.

"I won't be happier if you're miserable," she simply said when one day Rhaelle asked her why she was good to her, and Argella was happy, for she had seen too many men and women feeding their bitterness on other people's ill luck. None of them had become any happier.

Three months after Rhaelle's arrival, the news from King's Landing made Orys and Argella stare at each other, robbed of their words.

"Three months?" Lyonel asked and looked at his goblet, as if he wanted to blame his bad reading on the wine he had imbibed. But the goblet was full, as well as the carafe. "That's how much weight he puts on all this? Three months?"

His wife snatched the parchment and read it. Her mouth disappeared into a thin line. She passed the letter to Ormund who read it with growing disbelief before whistling. "I'm starting to believe that Rhaelle will be better off with us! At least she knows where she stands with us."

"This is easy for you to say," Orys snapped, as if Ormund could hear him. _He doesn't understand_ , Argella wanted to say and couldn't because he'd never accept the words, never admit the right of them. Instead, she leaned against his shoulder once again. Just when had she started trying to make up for the lack of understanding of this very matter that he had suffered for so many years? He preferred things clear, or so he said, but sometimes the pain of having his station made so very clear made him long for some ambiguity. A son and not a son. A brother and not a brother. Blood of the dragon without one to ride. She had once so disdained his wish to be defined fully as her husband when the blood of her father would forever mar the distance between them, no matter how short.

"I think you should talk to Jocelyn before telling Rhaelle," Ormund said out of thin air. "She's the only one of us that Rhaelle cares about. She'll know how we should go about this."

His sister's advice was brief. "Be straightforward and honest, Mother," she said. "And gentle. Please be gentle with her." She paused and looked from her mother to her father. "And please never tell _me_ the same thing that you're going to tell her."

"There won't be any need," Ormund said darkly. "I am no Duncan Targaryen."

"You'd better not be," Orys and Argella said at the same time, although Argella suspected that their reasons somewhat differed. She was furious to admit that after all those years – after _all_ those years – Orys still hoped for acceptance from the Targaryens. Argella was just tired of seeing misery in the castle of their House.

Reluctantly, Lady Margrat sent for Rhaelle. Lyonel and Ormund, the men that they were, flew before the girl's arrival, muttering something about ladies' being more suited to deal with matters of heart, and so it was just Margrat and Jocelyn who told Rhaelle that her brother and his lowborn wife were now officially accepted at court and settled in the Red Keep.

Argella saw how pale the girl turned, how her breath caught as if all the air had left her lungs. "Three months!" she only said.

That's how much value they place on her, Argella thought, enraged on her behalf. Losing her to this peace was worth just three months of punishment for their golden son.

Lady Margrat cleared her throat. "Perhaps your lady mother was feeling so lonely after your departing that she needed all her other children around her…" she started but Rhaelle shook her head.

"There is no need, my lady," she said. "Truly. Thank you for trying to comfort me! But I'd rather not be treated as a child. My parents have made their priorities clear."

 _Aren't you one_ , Argella wondered and had to admit that here, this far, Rhaelle had only been a coin, and a quite darkened one, at that. _Let her become something more_ , she pleaded with gods whose presence she could no longer feel. _Slights and hatred had been in abundance already. Let them stop._


	5. The Trident

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed and sorry about the long delay!**

Storm Untamed

 _The Trident_

Life could always surprise one, they had both learned it young, kept learning it again and again. Life had taken Orys from the fish in broths, fish in stew, roasted fish, fish that was not sufficient to keep him fed from time to time to the most magnificent evening feasts of so many courses that he had no physical ability and certainly no desire to taste them all; from the small wooden barrack where winds howled in vengeance, making the wood rattle, to the dragon castle and then a castle of his own. A peasant boy and a warrior-to-be, a powerful lord and Hand of the King – he had played all the parts.

"You weren't a pawn of the Seven," Argella would say because what she couldn't say was, "You don't owe it all to Aerion and Aegon." He would never believe her, the memories of his childhood as vivid as ever, and it would only lead to new arguments, with him going on the defensive for himself, for them. A _them_ Argella was no part of. "You carved your own fate," she'd say because this, he could believe. How he could believe both things at once, she could not fathom, but believe both he did. He did not see the contradiction. Over the years, her desire to make him arrive at the light had reached feverish levels as her affection for him grew and their marriage no longer felt like the chains it had been in the beginning. Or perhaps she had come to love being chained? Anyway, when he asked, "What's the purpose, Argella? To stop being grateful? What will it help? Will it _unmake_ me your father's murderer?", to this, she had no answer but at least she realized that there was contradiction! More than what could be said for her lord husband!

As to the way life had surprised her, the winding roads it had taken her – about this, she liked not to think about and Orys did not press her. Perhaps he was afraid that if he pressed her the way she pressed him, what would come out would be ugliness. Ugliness that he could not live with. "Out of the two of us, you're the more courageous one, I sometimes think," he told her more than once and she did not disagree but it no longer filled her with the contempt she had once felt, those first few times when she had seen him as human and fallible.

Death could always surprise one, it came out now. After two times of hundred years, they did learn something new about themselves. "Isn't this what you wanted from me?" Argella asked bitingly, her grudging tolerance for Orys' ridiculous loyalty to the Targaryens finally having reached its limit in the face of the last, greatest insult the dragon kings had dealt their House. After Steffon and Cassana had died in their quest to provide a worthy match for Rhaegar Targaryen, worthy in Aerys' eyes, that was it; in Argella's, the first half-mad peasant along the road would do, as it had for Duncan the Small, he had deemed taking Lord Baratheon's betrothed the greatest idea of all. "Has he learned nothing from the Lyonel moment?" Orys had asked, astounded. "Does he not fear the consequences? Does he not _fear_ us?" The last bit had been certainly better than his reaction to any of the offences House Baratheon had suffered but unfortunately, Argella was in no mood to appreciate his progress. At this speed, he'd say something uncharitable about the Targaryens in another two times of hundred years if not four!

"Isn't this what you wanted from me?"

They would happily leave this damned tower in the midst of nothing and that was about the greatest thing they had in common right now. Neither of them wanted to be here, in Dorne, of all places, watching Lyanna Stark sway between cursing Rhaegar and weeping for him to come back because she loved him and he was not to blame… Argella could sympathize with the girl's grief for her dead father and brother because it was no doubt genuine and at the same time, with her love for the man who was going to war against her remaining brothers because she had come to love her father's murderer as well… and at the same time, she wanted to reach down, shake her and yell at her to bloody choose a side and decide who she was weeping for! Of course, she couldn't but at least she could rant and rage at Orys who was equally undecided… and he could _hear_ her.

"Did I want you to weep for me?" he snapped back. "Oh yes, I did… You could have learned some things about love and loyalty from her, my lady."

This was so irrational that Argella lost her speech. Love and loyalty? Learn them from the girl who had shirked her duty and loyalties without bothering to inform the parties involved what she had done? Who was still undecided whom she was loyal to? _He cannot mean it_ , she thought and then realized that he well could. He had always been torn between his love for her that naturally led him to want to align his values with her and this terrible, enslaving gratitude to the Targaryens for not leaving him to live his life as a fisherman. As they had left their bastards for generations! And this parallel led him into condoning the deliberate offence the blasted girl had dealt their House.

"I can see why you think so," she said coldly when she finally found her voice again. "And you could leave something about those from Rhaegar Targaryen, I suppose. I can't think of a better way to prove your love to someone than leave your wife for them practically in the birthing bed."

That had been one of the things Rhaegar Targaryen had said trying to calm the girl down, after all. That he had left his wife and children to be with her. Argella had seen the insincerity but she couldn't say what it was. Amazingly, Lyanna Stark seemed to have grasped it as well because she had flown at him screaming once again.

This last blow hit home. It had been in the aftermath of their second child's birth, when she had been tossed this way and that between life and death when it had been his name that she had been calling. Not her father's. Not the betrothed who had died along with King Argillac. His. This confession that despite his weakness, despite her being the mentor in ruling and the stability he clung to after his return from Dorne, despite the weaknesses he had shared with her as they lay on one pillow, she did consider him her protector. The one who could save her, although, of course, at the end she had been the one to save herself. That had been the first time he had known for sure that he was in her heart, not her practical mind.

"I wouldn't have liked it if you had been like her," Orys finally said and Argella glanced at him, surprised, to be met with his own surprise. Orys had wanted her love from the very beginning… but now, faced with the confused, frustrated love, clinging to it and denying it of a strong, yet so vulnerable girl, he realized that he had had it better – a stable progression from hatred, distrust, and practicality to fragile truce, peace, broken heart being slowly mended and opening to him just as slowly, despite the scarlet veins of scars that never faded. In all his longing for his new lady wife's loyalty of the heart, he had never stopped to think what it would have meant to her, them. How it would have changed her. How he could have never trust such love to be constant and not underpinned with remorse and hatred.

Argella was once again staring the girl, pity and anger battling across her face. "You little fool," she said softly but her sympathy was quickly gone when she remembered that it was her House Lyanna Stark had spat upon without thinking twice, the House that she had started building with hatred and reluctance, to finally put her life and blood into it. But her anger towards the Prince was much greater. How many times had he thought the Targaryens could demand of House Baratheon to put up with their offences? Did he think her descendants his slaves, for all that the slavery had been extinguished in Westeros? Aegon had certainly thought this way about Orys! Worse, Orys himself had worn his chains happily, imagining that a benign master was better than him being free…

"Yes," Orys agreed, taking her hand. "A little fool she is. The bigger fool will be made to realize his folly soon enough."

Argella smiled. "She wouldn't have been a good Lady of the Stormlands anyway," she said, pleased enough to be able to think rationally. "Robert needs reining in and someone to keep pushing him in the right direction. Do not let his charm deceive you. He's inefficient and he'll stay this way if left to his own devices."

But of course, Orys would not be deceived by this kind of charm. He had been unrelentlessly loyal to a man who had had none of that.

"She would have kept him company riding and circling around the Stormlands and the rest of the realm," he agreed and remembered how he had yearned for those things when Argella had taken him to their educational trips. For years. But at the end, he had emerged a competent lord. Perhaps it was not bad that this child would never be the Lady of the Stormlands now. Two people too preoccupied with their pleasures were more than his lands – he was still ready to make everyone who dared claim they weren't his a head shorter – could take.

Which did not justify the insult, of course. This last offence. Last for now, that was it. As he watched the two armies on their respective sides of the river, he could only shake his head. Had no one told the boy that leaving the unminted warriors behind was a sure way to summon defeat if at any moment the battle turned against them? Leaving them in the rear meant giving them more chances to flee. Or perhaps he had been told and he didn't listen. Of course, there was a chance that no one had dared or even known because a seasoned battle commander like the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been left behind to guard the Northern girl from… whom? The rebels, on the contrary, had made the best of their more limited numbers. Orys would not have expected less from men seasoned in battles as he knew they were. Robert stood out, tall and imposing, a king in all but name. Just by looking at him, Orys would have thought that he'd be the victor… but he had thought the same about an old king long time ago and he had emerged from the battle with not only the king's life but the king's daughter as well.

"What's going to happen now?" Argella asked, voice uncertain. Even in their first months together, when she had been so carefully polite that he could feel her contempt for his ineptitude of ruling, she had valued his knowledge of battles. Causing death.

"I don't know," he said honestly but when he saw the Targaryen, a presuming boy in a man's body, riding towards Robert, he knew. A giant against a man. A warhammer against sword. Had no one in the Red Keep ever taught Rhaegar Targaryen to assess chances? He'd fall. His army would scatter. Orys didn't need to watch in order to know that.

"Is this the Targaryen code of honour?" Argella hissed. "He robbed him and now he's trying to kill him? That's what the Targaryens had always inflicted on us – pain and death, and dishonour!"

Orys could object that as ill-advised as Rhaegar's actions were, they were hardly governed by any wish to inflict further harm on Robert. He had rationally arrived at the conclusion that killing the Lord of the Stormlands would saw confusion amidst his more seasoned warriors… and here, his rationality ended. But he felt no inclination to point it out. The anger that he had always gathered in him to unleash against those who opposed Aegon was now building up, aimed at Aegon's descendant, against all the wrongs over the years that he had tried so hard not to see. And when Rhaegar fell and Argella let out a victorious cry, he smiled. And didn't tug his hand out of hers, although she was squeezing it so had that there was blood trickling under her nails.

"We won," Argella breathed, forgetting for a moment that a man who was not good enough for the Stormslands could hardly be good enough for a realm where Orys felt sure Robert would end up.

He took a deep gulp of air, if the action of a ghost could be called so, and the air felt different. More… free. Unscented by a stalwart loyalty and everlasting gratitude for having been benevolently used. He could now think of Aegon, his half-sisters, and their father simply with love.

Argella's smile engulfed her entire face. She let go off his hand but she looked no less victorious than Robert. He could almost hear her voice, "Aegon Targaryen, I deprived you of something you held dear just as you did to me."

* * *

 **The End**


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